


The Finer Art of Dying

by Rynfinity



Series: The March of the Damned [2]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Arson, Crimes & Criminals, Extremely Dubious Consent, Graphic Description, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Mildly Dubious Consent, Platonic BDSM, Prison, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest, Substance Abuse, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:37:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1683644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynfinity/pseuds/Rynfinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is bored clear into oblivion (yes, it’s a constant thing... never let anyone tell you being a nutjob is enough to keep a smart person even halfway entertained).</p><p> <br/>This story takes place in the same AU and timeframe as does <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1166285/chapters/2371823">Truths</a> from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/104813">Out of the Mouths of Babes</a>; unlike the Babes stories, this one is told from Loki's point of view.</p><p>  <b>WARNING:</b> Graphic description of attempted suicide and discussion of self-injury.  For those of you who have been following Babes!verse, this is nothing new.  Still, it is what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Loki remembers, Loki hates.

"You won't remember what happened," the guy - a doctor, by the title stitched nearly into his white lab coat; no badges allowed in here, nothing sharp, nothing _dangerous_ … not in this shithole, not in this room – tells Loki brightly. "But don't let that worry you. It's perfectly normal."

He can’t help it (not that he tries particularly hard, true); he laughs aloud at that one. This is a fucking _asylum_. What possible place can there be here for _normal?_

Unsurprisingly, Loki laughs alone. He’s used to it. No one ever did find him the least bit funny.

"You're healing up nicely," the doctor continues, inspecting first one wrist and then the other. "We'll have these stitches out in no time."

At least the guy doesn't try to wrap up their _nonversation_ \- Loki is still pretending he can't talk, just because it's fun - with one of those stupid platitudes the people at this dump are always spewing: _This will all make sense to you someday soon,_ perhaps, or one of Loki's favorites… _Try not to be afraid._

That last one drives him right up a wall.

Because he's _not_ fucking afraid; he's _angry_.

~

In reality ( _reality;_ that's another thigh-slapper), though, Loki does remember. Not _all_ of it, of course - he obviously can't recall what happened once he faded out of consciousness (for what would have been, if he’d just had anyone’s luck but his own, the very last time) - but far too much to qualify as that elusive _normal_ the doctor keeps bandying about.

For instance, Loki remembers knowing with burning certainty that - Thor gone, and what road back can there even be from _fucking your own brother?_ \- he could not go on.

Subsequent to that he remembers digging around in his father's – well, his _not-father's_ , despite the ridiculous fucking _game_ they still all dutifully played; the one where they were a Lovely And Happy Family Because Noone Else Could Ever Know Loki Was Fucking Crazy - basement workshop, looking for a brand new razor blade because he wasn't going to take his chances on some dull-ass piece-of-shit blade Odin had used to the last edge of dull worthlessness.

There is more than a little irony there, yes. He remembers that, too. Still, for once in his shitty excuse for a life he had a goal... and it wasn't failure. So, the blade had to be a new one.

He also remembers carefully thinking the whole thing through and opting to start with his right wrist; Loki is right-handed and, while he'd staved off (what amounted to not nearly enough) soul-sucking boredom (because any trace of a soul had flown the coop ages ago… see: _fucking your own brother_ ) trying to cultivate ambidexterity, he just couldn’t trust his left hand to be up to the task injured.

_Injured._ That’s a cute, euphemistic way to put it. He’ll have to suggest it to the doctor guy.

Loki remembers turning the water off when it just lapped at his lower ribs. He was trying to die, not to bring down the fancy plaster ceiling of the dining room below.

He might have hated Odin, sure, and most of all himself, but he had no beef with the house. Still (does, does more than ever now, and still) doesn't. So: water all in the bathtub even after the body sinks down? Check.

The body, the carcass, the worthless piece of-… the _monster_.

Anyway… he remembers seeing himself trace that first cut – seeing the skin part, the blood start to bead and then well up – before really feeling the pain. And then as the pain began to take on a life of its own, all the blood; so very, very much blood.

Loki had often wondered if doing this would roughly approximate cutting one of your fingers with a razor blade (or cutting neatly-spaced lines into the skin of your thigh, where no one will see), where (you only wanted to feel _something_ , but instead) you felt pretty fucking near nothing at all.

And then, at the end, just when you could almost think you’d imagined it; that little burning sting.

It was. Just like it. Only better. Because this time, as the razor sliced deeper and deeper, it went far beyond that little burning sting; it hurt like fucking hell.

He very clearly remembers staring at all that blood, welling and spurting and swirling into the bathwater like cream in Frigga's morning coffee. Loki had always taken his own black, because it went down harder that way. He still does. Thor, of course, added so much cream and sugar his coffee was practically dessert. Thor always did want everything sweet and easy. Pity.

He'd almost watched the bleeding too long, actually - when he'd finally managed to tear his attention away from it and had gone back to _finishing the job,_ he'd been almost too weak and fumble-fingered to do the other side.

Loki knows he was probably starting to fade by then. He remembers doing it, though; cutting the other wrist, as best he could.

In fact, he even remembers setting the blade carefully – with bloody, numbed, dripping fingers – on the tub's edge instead of letting it slip into the red water.

Last but not least he remembers wanting to write something on the wall, but only managing a bloody, smeared palm print. Which was a lot more distressing than it probably should have been. Not like the whole thing didn’t fucking speak for itself perfectly adequately, when all was _not said but done._

He doesn't remember the rest, it’s true; not until bright lights and IVs and a pounding head and gauze and restraints and sweet, sweet, drugged oblivion.

Still, he remembers enough.

~

Loki keeps it to himself, though, even once he bores of not talking. He keeps it quiet, right up until he discovers that mentioning it - especially with just the right touch of theatrics, learned as far back as grade school and conveniently perfected in that otherwise-wasted college debacle - reliably gets him sedated.

Then, (not so fucking) mysteriously, (but these idiots here are really no match for him, fancy degrees or not,) he talks of little else. 

~

"Go fuck yourself;" he spits at Odin, when he should probably have settled for a simple _hello_. Loki is yet again bored half to death (hah!), though, and his (not-)father is as worthy a target as there ever was.

"I'll have you know I'm spending more money to keep your sorry ass here than I'm paying for your brother's college," Odin growls, face right up in Loki's space. "The least you could do is show a little fucking gratitude.”

Loki idly wonders what would happen if he _bit_ Odin. In the end it doesn't quite seem worth it. Plus, eew. "No one put a gun to your head," he says instead. "You could have just left me there, and both you and I would have been a whole lot fucking happier."

Well, _he_ would have been a whole lot fucking _deader_. Whatever. Same difference.

"Oh, believe you me, I would have," Odin nearly shouts. The guys who watch the camera feed will be in here any second now. "But you didn't _do_ this to me. You did it to _your mother_."

For once, Loki doesn't even have to fake the wordless howl that follows.

Once he starts, too, he can't stop. Over his own screams he hears the door buzzer. A commotion. Raised voices.

He howls through it all, through the rough handling. Someone tries unwisely to silence him with a hand and gets the bite Odin really had coming.

Point of fact: Loki manages to scream, hoarse and raw now, all the way (through getting muscled to the floor and pinned face-down on the filthy vinyl, arm high between his own shoulder blades and someone's sharp kneecap digging into his back) to the sharp prick of the needle.

Maybe he keeps on screaming after that, too; fuck if he knows.

~

The next time he is bored clear into oblivion (yes, it’s a constant thing; never let anyone tell you being a nutjob is enough to keep a smart person even halfway entertained), right after yet another in a string of incredibly dissatisfying visits from his brother, Loki lets one of his fellow - inmates? The staffers call all of them _clients_ , but he's not feeling it somehow - catch him out accidentally-on-purpose after group and fuck him bloody.

The guy is no _Thor_ but the whole thing proves considerably more diverting than yet another night of mind-numbing television.

Not so much the sex, really; the fun that follows.

Lots and lots of fun.

~

"Honest, it's no big deal," he tells the aghast-looking social worker from the comfy infirmary bed, with what he’s certain – from long practice – is his best revolting, stomach-turning Insane Person grin. "I'm used to it."

"But we've checked all the footage," she insists, apparently not quite willing to call him out for the liar he is. Fucking sissy. "And we can’t find a single prior-."

"Oh, not here," he cuts in with a dismissive wave. "My brother."

~

Loki feels good about it, for a surprisingly long time.

And when the guilt does come crashing down - and it will; it always does - he's never more than five screams from his newfound lover.

The only one to ever come close to Thor, when it comes to making Loki _forget._

The needle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Free at last, with places to go and people to see.
> 
> Yeah, it's not what it's cracked up to be.

“Humor me,” the doctor says, “and run through your plans one more time.”

Loki slips easily into _earnest_ \- sweet, slightly worried face; quiet voice, only the least hint of a smile – because this particular string of half truths is a little weak and needs all the help it can get. “Scott has an apartment, with his sister,” he recites, ticking the salient points off on his strangely naked-looking fingers. Huh. He hasn’t really looked at his own hands in a while, apparently. The first thing he’s going to do when he’s out of this shit-hole is scrounge up some black polish.

Okay, the second thing, or maybe the third. “They’re going to let me stay there until I get back on my feet,” he continues pleasantly (even though the whole idea is fucking hilarious, because he’s never once been _on_ his feet to start with). The least hint of _Angry Loki_ here could blow everything, though, so he treads very, very carefully. “And I’ve already called the psychiatrist you suggested and set up an appointment.”

That part’s even completely true (and some of the rest of it, too, now that he thinks about it). Loki has exactly no plans whatsoever of _showing up_ for the appointment in question, but that part’s neither here nor there. All that matters now is that he _looks_ grounded.

~

It’s that easy. One phone call to Scott’s sister – who, quite unlike Loki’s family… apparently blood really does count for something after all… will do anything in her power to help her poor little (sadistic drug-addicted idiotic asshole of a) brother – later and he’s _free._

Outside again, in street clothes, with a coupon for bus fare and a completed application for food stamps. _Free._

Fucking finally.

~

There’s one thing to be said for burnt bridges: the choice of what to do next is so much easier.

He’s not going back home. Even before the _bit with the bathtub_ Odin had made it painfully (figuratively, of course, but also very much literally; Loki’s ribs still hurt on occasion if he moves wrong) clear he was no longer welcome there. _No longer_ may be the wrong choice of words, too, but he supposes he must have been welcome at some point.

For a few minutes, at least? Maybe years and years ago, as a cute toddler?

Loki knows he was a cute toddler; he’s seen pictures. He was all big green eyes and little button nose and black hair sticking out in a million directions. Yes, he was probably briefly welcome then. He lets _no longer_ stand.

By extension of the above, though, he isn’t going to be banging down Thor’s door either. While he’s not at all sure at this particular juncture if the things Odin told him about his brother are truths or lies, Loki’s not going to risk what could only be the _worst humiliation ever._

No, if his brother wants to rekindle a friendship (or whatever), Thor himself will have to be the one to make the first move.

Not home, then, and not Thor.

The guy from group – the one that fucked him – is still on the inside. Not that Loki feels any bond there anyway, but he’s trying to be diligent and cover all his shitty bases.

~

So, Scott’s it is. For good. For bad.

Easy.

~

Life at Scott’s place, Loki quickly realizes, could not be more exactly that: Good, bad, easy.

~

It’s good because the sister in question – Lila, she goes by, although he’s reasonably certain that isn’t her real name… which doesn’t matter anyway – takes a liking to him. Not a romantic kind of liking (and that’s fine, more than fine, because Loki used all that part of himself up on Thor and doesn’t think it will ever grow back); she just wants him to be okay.

And if that means tying him up, her complex rope work marking his pale skin for days afterwards, or paddling him, or taking the baton to him until he’s doubled over gasping, Lila’s up for the job.

It’s not something he knew about himself, coming in here, but it fits with his worldview. Loki will take that, considering it happens so fucking rarely.

Sometimes, once she really gets to know him, she lets him take the lead.

Loki doesn’t have the patience for ropes but he’s not half-bad at the rest, as it turns out.

All the talk about _trust_ grates on him, though. He’s a monster, and monsters can’t be trusted. The truly frustrating part, though - what really pisses him off - is that she doesn’t fucking believe him. Like she can see inside his head and know what’s there. As if.

~

On the other hand, living there is bad because Scott – and maybe this is part of why Lila is so hard to convince… Loki’s not sold on her point, even so – is a monster too. He has clear expectations for Loki, most of which involve some combination of blood (Loki’s) and sex.

It’s not half as hard as it probably should be to just fucking check out mentally and let Scott take what he wants, though, so that’s what Loki does.

If he can barely walk some days – can hardly drag his scrawny ass out of bed, even (and the term _bed_ may be a little over-generous, applied to the bare, dirty mattress in the basement where he spends his down time) – that’s the price of shelter.

Of other things, too. See: easy.

~

Easy because: _drugs_.

The things food stamps – well, that’s a misnomer; it’s a card now, sort of like a charge card, but old terms die hard – get you are handy when it comes time to barter. 

Your own ass? That’s even handier, at least when you’re (un)lucky enough to look as good as Loki does. He can’t say he ever considered being white as a fucking ghost, so much so that every tiny mark shows up fast and stays forever (and the scars on his wrists, months and months later, are quite the testament to how long _forever_ can be), an asset before. The people Scott runs with, though? Clearly, they do.

Sometimes Loki catches himself almost longing for the days when the only bruises he sported were from smacking his shin against the family coffee table. When the only scars were from his own hand.

But it turns out there’s a pill to fix feeling that way.

There’s a pill to fix feeling a lot of ways: Like you care who fucks you; like you need to sleep; like you’re hungry; like you’re sad; like you wish you were happy.

Alas, there doesn’t seem to be a pill that fixes being a monster. Hides it? Sure. But not _fixes it._

No solution, Loki learned a long time ago, remotely approaches perfect. But you do what you can. _And when you can’t, you die._

~

He thinks about hanging himself. Lila talks him out of it. He’s not quite sure how she even knew. Apparently his _inside voice_ has been going out without him.

There’s a pill to fix talking when you think you’re not, you know?

~

Scott’s friends are too idiotic, Loki is firmly convinced, to qualify as a gang. They call themselves one, and they have stupid pass phrases and a sign they spray paint wherever they go, but none of that makes them more than an aggregate collection of rank stupidity.

Not that any of those morons would know what words like _aggregate_ and _rank_ mean to begin with. Which is funny, if you think about it. He does, because that’s how dull and pointless life has become.

That’s funny too. _Has become_. Loki laughs at that one, until he pulls something in his side and has to stop.

He knows from the start getting involved in their ridiculous shenanigans is a very bad idea. Still, it’s less boring than lying around on the mattress waiting for Scott to decide _the rent is due._ That, and it turns out there’s only so far food stamps will take you after all.

And waiting for a fix because you’re out of money flat-out fucking sucks. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.

~

Somehow they manage – Loki can only assume it’s by virtue of sheer annoyance; they are the mosquitos of crime in this city – to catch real attention.

_Algrim,_ the burly man standing outside Scott’s door like he owns the place calls himself. He has work for them. He doesn’t even bother making it sound optional. Loki rather likes that in a person.

It’s the only thing he likes in this particular person but you have to start somewhere.

~

The really stupid ones are fine; they’re too dumb to be on anyone’s radar. They’ll get themselves killed sooner or later anyway and, if they go to jail first, they’re too dumb to be dangerous even if they sing.

The really smart ones, like Loki, are useful. At least, he tells himself it’s his _smarts_ in which they’re interested. The alternative is kind of gross, when you get right down to it.

It’s the ones in the middle who pose a problem. And as much as he hates them, Loki still finds himself awfully glad to be excluded from the (un)due process by which they are… well, he supposes you can call it _neutralized._

He doesn’t miss them, though. There is no room here for sentiment, even if they were worthy of it to begin with.

They weren’t.

~

It all works, somehow, until they lose Lila.

~

He thinks Scott was driving.

Normally Loki’s memory is unusually sharp, drugs or no, but he’d hit his head hard when the car took down the pole and most of the night is at best fuzzy.

Lila lying lifeless - mangled and bloody, her head twisted at an angle no one’s neck can manage and her leg nearly severed – amidst the wreckage, though? That’s not fuzzy. It’s sharper than sharp, _razor_ fucking sharp, and the very thought of it makes him retch. Every time.

~

It’s not just the physical marks, it seems, that show up fast and stay forever.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was once a lifeline is now a trap.

“Don’t touch me.”

With Lila gone, things at Scott’s have quickly devolved from tolerable to just bearable and then straight on down to completely fucking untenable. All Loki can figure, in the increasingly rare moments when he’s lucid and pain-free enough to reason at all, is that she was somehow the one keeping both of them – him, without a doubt; apparently Scott as well – functionally stable.

Because Scott sure isn’t now.

“I _said_ on your knees,” the man in front of him – he’s more of an overgrown _boy_ , not unlike Thor, but dull and brutish in a way Loki’s own brother never was – barks, fist connecting solidly with Loki’s belly in a way that leaves him little choice but to drop to all fours, gasping and drooling.

He struggles not to whimper… because if Scott smells blood, figuratively or literally, he is totally fucking screwed.

Figuratively _and_ literally.

Scott is as skilled at wielding the collection of toys in the basement as his sister was. More so, even, depending on how you look at it. But the same things that were _tools_ in her hands – ways to feel alive, ways to feel better – are flat-out implements of torture in Scott’s.

And Scott is carrying a great deal of (misdirected, if Loki may say so himself… but he _may not,_ of course, and therefore he doesn’t) anger in the wake the accident that took his sister. And Loki is the only one here. He was the only one _there_.

By extension, he’s the only target.

It really, really sucks, more than living without dying. But Loki is too tired and beat to shit to even bother trying his hand at killing himself again, which is an astoundingly ridiculous situation if he’s ever heard one. How is it even possible to be too _tired_ to die?

~

“The boss,” Algrim says, meaning Malekith (Loki has seen the guy in passing, once or twice – he has the creepiest blue-white eyes ever – but has never actually made his acquaintance), “has a job for you.”

It’s a clear sign of how badly things are sucking that Loki doesn’t even think to ask what said _job_ entails; he’s just up and putting on his boots and ready to go.

Algrim laughs. “Slow down, tiger. We need to talk about this first; make sure you’re the right guy and all.” He doesn’t say _kid_ , which Loki appreciates; he hasn’t been a _kid_ since he was, what, four?

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Loki shoots back, desperation making him brave. “I’m in.”

“Things that bad here?” Algrim grins, then searches Loki’s face. “What makes you so sure it won’t be worse at HQ?” He catches Loki by the jaw with one big hand, fingers digging in on one side and thumb hooking the other. It’s not painful, not even across the line into _ungentle_ , but the raw power in Algrim’s grip makes Loki’s head swim. “Look at me, pretty one,” Algrim orders, and Loki does. “You may think you’ve seen it all. Guess what: You haven’t.”

~

It should have been an easy job. Undoubtedly would have been, too, if Loki hadn’t found a way to overthink it. Algrim’s lackeys have gotten in and out with the goods, like clockwork. They’ve done exactly what they were expected to do, have set Malekith up to take over this territory.

But Loki is having a particularly paranoid day – something he’s taken, probably. Or maybe something he hasn’t.

Standing on the loading dock watching the panel truck drive away, its dirty white box a fast-vanishing speck way down the long driveway, he can’t shake the feeling they’ve left something behind. Something incriminating. Some stupid, careless thing that will bring the whole operation down.

He should fix it. He wants to. _Needs_ to.

Loki looks around and around, so keyed up his skin crawls.

The forklifts have their own propane tanks. The small tools, though… and, sure enough, there it is, over in the back corner of the dock, half hidden under a workbench: a gas can. Plastic, lightweight.

Perfect.

Easy.

He’s never done this before, sure… never even seen it done for real. Still, how hard can it be?

~

Loki has watched the crime shows. He’s watched the movies. He knows destroying evidence the smart way is about soaking just the right things in gas, _not_ about pouring the shit willy-nilly all over the place.

He’s very careful. He has all the usual slip-ups accounted for. This part of the building is pretty much empty, too; nowhere near enough combustible material to actually sustain a fire. Basic chemistry, not rocket science. Any evidence will be gone, there won’t be much in the way of collateral damage.

It will all be tied up in a neat little bow, and Loki will – for once in his sorry little existence – be the hero. Will have proven his worth. Ipso facto, he will not have to go back to Scott’s.

~

What he fails to take into account is the lone forklift parked just too close to his little experiment. He sees the stupid thing on his hurried way back to the dock, sure, but the implications somehow don’t register.

~

Loki feels, rather than hears, the shock of the explosion. And then he’s flying, for real. Him and a hundred bricks, all flying, just like a scene straight out of the fucking _Matrix._

~

The hospital is much nicer than Scott’s place. It’s all white and clean and pleasant. The jail officer assigned to make sure Loki stays there? Not so much.

Nothing is ever perfect, not in _Loki World._

Before too long he’s far too caught up in the everyday horror of withdrawal – from what, exactly, he’s not even certain; he can’t give the hospital staff enough information to help him, on the off chance they intended to try – to give a flying fuck about the guy.

_Flying fuck_ , Loki thinks, in a rare moment of clarity. _That’s funny._

~

The prison infirmary is less white, less clean, and less pleasant. Loki’s brain doesn’t seem to be working properly – for a given value of _properly_ \- anymore anyway; it’s stuck on an endless loop of _Frigga is dead_ and _it should have been you._

Rinse, repeat.

Okay, no, this is jail. No rinsing.

Just repeating.

Word in the yard – yeah, for a few days he was even well enough to go to the yard, and isn’t _that_ just a fucking miracle – is that Malekith killed her to get back at Odin, for something that happened in court long ago. Something Loki probably should remember, except for how he had his head way up his own ass in those days.

Like he doesn’t now. If it weren’t for how _Frigga is dead_ that would almost be funny too.

Anyway, word in the yard is wrong. Loki knows why Frigga is dead. Loki knows, with as much certainty as his ravaged mind can manage, that Frigga is dead because of forklifts and flying bricks.

Because of him.

_Because he’s hopelessly arrogant and hopelessly broken and should have been left to die, just like Odin said._

It hurt like hell to hear, because it was so true.

~

The straightjacket is new.

Apparently it’s what you get when, on infirmary break from trashing your cell, you lose the plot again and trash both your sickroom and yourself.

It’s itchy.

He’s itchy.

All the places they tell Loki he clawed himself – he doesn’t remember that part, which is unusual enough that he thinks they may just be lying – are itchy.

It’s itchy and it reeks. Especially after he pees in it.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” the orderly – the minder? – hisses.

“Urinating,” Loki tells him, baring his teeth. He wriggles a little, to emphasize the whole bit about how he _hasn’t got the use of his hands_.

“And you couldn’t _tell_ someone? What the hell is with you?”

“I’m crazy,” Loki stage-whispers conspiratorially, trying to shrug and finding it kind of impossible. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

In retrospect, that may very well be why he spends the rest of the day sitting in his own pee. Which is itchy. Still, Loki thinks it might be worth it.

~

What’s _definitely_ worth it, though? A thousand times over, and then some? The look on Thor’s face.

~

They haven’t seen one another in years. Haven’t even spoken. Thor never once came searching for him, not even when Loki was hiding right out there in the plainest possible sight. Quod erat demonstrandum: Thor has moved on. Washed his big, strong hands of the filth that was his slutty brother and climbed up out of hell.

Now, sitting with his itchy ass on the cold, damp concrete and his itchy straightjacket pinching his groin, Loki watches Thor’s face through the smeary plexiglas and isn’t quite so certain.

Not certain at all, actually.

To test the theory Loki wets his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. Slowly, slowly, just the way Thor used to like it.

_There. That._ Thor recovers his composure very quickly – he’s a lawyer now, after all; no doubt his stage face is good enough to rival Loki’s own – but for a moment it’s clearly written in the dank air between them.

Thor still _wants_ him, the way no one should.

Still, the knife is in. And because he is who he is, because he’s crazy and can’t have nice things, Loki isn’t able to resist twisting its handle.

He doesn’t think _his brother_ will make the mistake of coming here again.

~

Back in his cell, still itchy, Loki can’t shake the feeling he may have just cut off his own nose to spite his face.

Right. Like he deserves Thor anyway. See: crazy, can’t have nice things.

~

He isn’t able to sleep like this. And when he finally does he wakes in a cold sweat, screaming his brother’s name.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jail isn't quite what Loki pictured. Neither is freedom.

"I won't be seeing you again, kiddo," Algrim tells him, clearly gloating. "At least not on the inside. Have fun." Malekith's right-hand man's broad face twists into its familiar grin, by equal parts _threat_ and _promise_. "And don't play with matches. Got it?"

Loki isn't sure what Algrim means - by the first part; the last is painfully obvious - but he nods anyway. "Good luck to you," he offers, because he kind of owes Algrim that much. They aren't a couple, never have been, but apparently just having an acquaintance (he would never presume _friend_ ; despite the time - it has to be close to two years now - they've spent together here, helping one another when they've had the opportunity or the need, Loki is fully aware that Algrim's relationships are entirely transactional) like the big enforcer is enough to keep a lot of dicks out of your orifices.

And in a place like this, Loki's orifices are very, very grateful.

~

Just as Algrim predicted - imagine that, coming from a king’s henchman; a powerhouse among plotters and schemers - it's mere hours after their chat that Something Goes Awry and the whole fucking prison spends the next few days in lockdown.

When the dust settles, Loki can’t help but notice that Algrim and several other key people are gone. They've left nothing behind, evidently, except rumors.

Rumors, and Loki.

And Loki quickly determines that, compared to enforcers, rumors don't provide nearly as much in the way of protection.

Every trip to the shower, to the commissary, to the yard turns into an endless cycle of _get away from me_ and _no_ and _stop!_ and _fuck, that hurts so bad PLEASE,_ periodically interspersed with choking and gagging and raw retching sounds (because every now and then someone chooses the front door over the back one). Oh, and the wet splat of globs of semen on the well-worn concrete, and the steady light _drip drip_ of blood.

On especially bad days three or four guys – or more - catch him out at once, and both ends get a thorough reaming. By the time one of those _awesome little escapades_ finally winds down, Loki is often making no sound at all. Not even those last two, the splattering or the dripping… not when he’s collapsed in a limp, shaking heap on the floor. Or the dusty ground. Or wherever else his fellow inmates have discarded him.

Now, he can’t deny this much: You could make a case for how his mouth had this coming. But Loki's ass has never done a single thing beyond following him everywhere.

It's simply fucking ridiculous. Entirely literally, this time.

In only a scant few days - by now, he's lost the ability to separate the endless nightmare into evenings and mornings - Loki can no longer keep food down. Shortly after that he can't stand. Combined, those difficulties land him back in the infirmary… with two working ears and a plan.

~

The rumor is pretty easy to ferret out, especially here in the sick room, sharing space (and earshot) with everyone injured in the recent- skirmish? _Riot_ may be a little strong. It’s not like Loki would know; he was too busy serving as a one-man sex shop. Anyway, they're here and they're pretty fucking chatty and _from the sound of it Malekith is going after Odin_ (no skin off of Loki's nose there) _and Thor_.

Okay, _that_ part matters. Hurts, even after everything.

It also comes in really, really handy. Which isn't the point, of course, but Loki can make good use of it just the same.

Can, will, does.

~

He tells one of the nicer nurses he wants to write to his brother. _All alone since mom died_ , Loki explains, _and probably worried sick since the whole mess here made the news._

Or not, but hopefully the bit about dying will catch Thor's attention.

She looks so sad, so sympathetic, as she pats Loki’s arm and then hands him pen and paper. He almost feels guilty, for just a moment.

Almost.

~

He isn't quite sure how he'd expected things would unfold. He is, however, completely certain this wasn't it.

Granted, Loki doesn't have much (any) experience with getting out of jail. Perhaps surprisingly, this is his first time in (you do the math).

That said, he's reasonably confident it doesn't usually involve getting singled out from the pack by two antsy guards - one of whom gives the oddest little rehearsed-sounding speech about undercover operations and _key informants_ \- and packed away in the paddy wagon.

After lights out, in what constitutes _the middle of the fucking night_ in these parts.

And it certainly doesn’t involve stumbling through the van door, only to find yourself in the strained, awkward company of _a representative of the DA's office;_ an attorney who just happens to be _your brother_. The very same brother, in fact, who can't decide if he loves you or hates you... if he wants his dick up your ass or his big hands clamped with killing force around your neck.

The brother of your dreams, your fantasies. The one you would die for, except for how you’re the one killing him to start with.

To top it all off, Thor has clearly _made plans of his own_ , which all but guarantees they are fucked twelve ways from Sunday. Twelve bad and awful ways.

~

"This plan of yours is going to get us both killed," Loki says, drily, after Thor - evidently opting for _throttling_ over _fucking_ this time, which is probably all for the best anyway after the day Loki's had - finally unhands him with a heavy shove that sends him staggering.

It's really not a bad plan, though. Not bad at all (although fuck if he's going to admit it, not while he can still feel the burn of his brother's thumbs crushing in on his windpipe). Loki asks a pointed question here and there, just to show he's still the smarter one (law school or no), but he really can't tease out any significant flaws. In the end they will each - will both, wholly and separately - serve as bait and let their quarry do the honors.

Let Malekith hismself choose between them, by whatever criteria suits _your above-average modern overlord_ presently.

It's smart, really. If it works, Loki will find a way to make Thor give him all the credit.

~

Okay, okay. In truth, that whole setup is not quite in line with how his brother seems to be imagining the _grand scheme_. Thor, arrogant ass that he is, thinks _he_ will take out Loki (in simulation, of course; he can only hurt Loki for real when no one else is looking) and then finish the job by whipping Malekith into submission as well.

Loki doubts it's anywhere near that black-and-white. That easy. He agrees like a good little brother when Thor orders him to _stay out of it_ , sure, because the slums at night are no place for silly bickering, but he crosses his nimble fingers behind his own back just the same.

This way it _will_ be his plan that saves Thor. And the credit _will_ be his. He _will_ go down a hero, or not at all.

~

_I didn't mean that last bit quite so literally_ , Loki thinks, as something hits him in the chest with the terrible force of a battering ram and lays him right out.

~

It’s so cold.

His brother is down here too, hovering. Thor's lips are moving and his tears fall out of the sky like rain but Loki hurts like he never, ever has. He can't move and he's drowning and Thor and something bright like the sun are spinning overhead and- and-...

~

“-Laufey’s kid. Yeah, I know. Can you believe it?”

“No fucking way!”

“-didn’t get hit by the same ugly stick as his fa-.“

“-look good in the trophy case, for-.”

~

_Holy fucking fuck_.

All there is - _all_ \- is agonizing pain. _White fucking hot nailed to a board with railroad spikes split open aliens bursting out searing tearing unfathomable pain._

No one ever told him dying could hurt so badly.

~

It smells a little like a hospital, only with a touch of _musty basement_. It’s not bright, or white. No one is nice, and everything is blurry.

~

“Hi, pretty.” The voice is soft and a little slimy-sounding. Loki knows he’s heard it before but he can’t begin to place it. “Feeling better?”

Even floating on the warm, syrupy haze of whatever he must have (taken? Been given? He can’t remember _anything_ ), that voice gives him chills. Loki tries to take a breath, tries to yell _get away from me,_ – his groggy brain helpfully supplying _roofies_ as raw panic boils up inside him - but there’s something in his mouth in his throat he can’t speak he’s choking _fuck!!_ oh god no-.

~

_The world is a little less distorted somehow._

“No sign of brain damage?” _That voice,_ Loki knows instantly: Malekith.

“Surprisingly, no. He lost a ton of blood and was out a long time, but from what I can tell so far he’s _all there_.” That’s the slimy-soft speaker from – from somewhere in his dreams? Loki’s ears seem to be working, but the rest of his brain is mush. “Of course,” the guy – in his own head, Loki labels him _Mr. Creepy_ \- continues, “we won’t know for sure until we can extubate him and let him talk. And we can’t do _that_ until I can pull the chest tube and that last goddamned drain.”

_Dr._ Creepy, then.

Loki tries moving his foot, just a little. Something clanks. Instantly, or at least it feels that way, Malekith’s head swims into view. Loki blinks up at _the big boss_ , trying valiantly (and fruitlessly) to focus.

“You can hear me,” Malekith says, from just a few inches away.

Loki tries to nod but a shocking burst of pain stops him cold. Tears spring to his eyes. His body tries to gasp but can’t; the end result is beyond horrible.

When Loki can finally focus again, Malekith is still there. Smiling. “Not feeling so hot, eh? You know the saying: _No good deed goes unpunished,_ ” he offers, laughing. Dr. Creepy laughs, too, from somewhere out of sight. Malekith’s eyes narrow. “Do you know who I am? You can’t talk, Loki,” he admonishes when Loki stupidly tries. “You have a tube in your throat.” He points; Loki can just barely see it. “Move your lips instead. We’ll figure it out.”

_Malekith,_ Loki mouths, trying his best to form the name properly.

He must do it right, because the two men here with him both sound pleased.

Encouraged by his own small success, he tries again: _Thor_.

Malekith’s laughter rings out loud and jarring this time, knifing through Loki’s head. “Thor? Thor Odinson? He left you in the street for dead, little one.” The doctor snorts; they’re both laughing now. “You’re on your own.”

With that some tiny bit of hope – just a little speck to start with, floating on the surface of Loki’s misery – dies. It must show in his face, too.

Malekith straightens out of view. “Give him some more,” he tells Dr. Creepy, voice hard. “Put him back out for now. We can finish this another time.”

_Wait,_ Loki tries frantically to say. He’s not fast enough; it doesn’t happen.


End file.
